Fifteen Slow Dances
by Hecticality
Summary: A collection of fics built around a theme – the slow dance. Expect fisticuffs, friendship, family, fancy footwork and only a little romance with fics set in the past, present and future of The A-Team.    non-slash, all characters, all-canon-all-the-time
1. When I Fall In Love

**Fifteen Slow Dances**

_TITLE: Fifteen Slow Dances _

_AUTHOR: Hectical_

_RATING: T for now._

_SUMMARY: A collection of fics built around a theme – the slow dance. Expect fisticuffs, friendship, family, fancy footwork and maybe a little romance with fics set in the past, present and future of The A-Team. (non-slash, all-canon-all-the-time)_

_DISCLAIMER: Written for pleasure, no profit gained, The A-Team and associated concepts and characters are not my intellectual property, I'm just a big 80s nerd and Steven J Cannell is my god. You know, the usual._

_NOTES: I'm not a big fan of song fic – so naturally I decided to turn my hand to it. Be as critical as you please, I acknowledge some of these could use some slash and burn. - H_

**When I Fall In Love**

_In the grip of a very bad day, Face find solace in an unexpected place._

"I need your head in the game, Face, and I mean all the way in," Hannibal had said in the relative private a shadowed street corner as they prepared to meet the others in the lobby of the Hamilton Grand which stood, just as grandly as its name suggested it might, across the busy street. "Whatever – or whoever – it is, leave it behind. Okay?"

Face nodded. He must have let his cool slide for a moment. It only took a moment for Hannibal's keen eyed gaze to focus on his slip. In his defence, he thought, he hadn't slept in thirty-five hours and had been hit on the head twice in the last eight. Twelve hours ago he'd broken it off with Holly Van Vieren in a boutique restaurant in Bel Air. They'd met for brunch, she'd worn a green Gucci shirt, he'd broken her heart and gotten his coffee to go. He'd been with her for a month and she was a nice kid, brunette, pretty, educated, ambitious, just the kind of woman he wanted – but lately she'd been talking about leaving a toothbrush at his place and that meant that the death knell had sounded loud and clear for that relationship. Four weeks was just about his safe limit anyway. After that girls started asking questions that he couldn't answer and wanted definites he couldn't give. Holly hadn't started with the questions yet but he could see it coming. He'd been as gentle as he could but couldn't give her an answer that didn't sound contrived and like a lie when she asked where it went wrong. When he'd walked away he'd seen her shoulders trembling and mascara running down one cheek and felt distinctly like an asshole. It wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last. Those were the breaks.

"Hey," Hannibal said sharply, forcing Face to concentrate on him completely. "I don't know what's up with you today, lieutenant, but secure it and move on." He frowned and relented a little. His tone was a little softer when he went on. "Tomorrow you can count the colours in the rainbow, Face, but tonight we have to catch some cons. Right?"

Again, Face nodded. "I'm here. I'm ready."

Hannibal studied him for a moment then nodded, once, affirming the statement. "Good. I can see Murdock and BA inside the doors…" He squinted at the grand entrance to the hotel, past the door man in his tall hat and past the crystal gleam of the glass doors. "And there's Amy. The gang's all here. Let's go."

He hustled Face across the street and the two men pushed through the revolving doors together.

oOooOooOo

Amy was wearing a figure hugging dress the exact emerald shade that Holly had been wearing. Yes, this was definitely one of the days that the Universe hated him.

She looked confident and was laughing at something BA had said as Face approached her. He felt jittery in a way that was setting off warning bells. He'd have to move carefully on this one, make sure he didn't trip. He got like this sometimes, like his bones were softening and his every secret was on display. One day, in a mood like this, he might just deliberately stumble over a cue or forget a line just to see what happened, like he might opt to fight his way out instead of talk his path to the door. This streak of black self-destruction was like a tide, like winter – natural. They all got swamped by it sometimes, even the unflappable BA. When it was his turn he just managed it as carefully as he did anything else that threatened his comfort and self control including the people he knew. He'd need to stay focussed, keep his head in the game, concentrate and get through it and, as Hannibal said, take some time when this was over to count the colours in the rainbow and get over it. Holly. Get over Holly. Or, rather, the angry, melancholic sensation of being scum that he associated with Holly and a dozen girls before her.

Amy flashed him a white smile when he reached her.

"Face, where have you been? We've been waiting for you for forever!" She nodded over his shoulder to Hannibal. She looked calm and collected, like she usually did. It grated on his nerves. He could do this on his own. He didn't need to be babysitting a civilian.

"It's been an hour," he replied smoothly. "I had to change. We can't all be as naturally beautiful as you."

She shrugged, accepting the compliment and, he sensed, choosing to ignore the barb in his tone. "So we go in and find McNiven and Ferdinand. Distract, divide and conquer, right?"

"You distract," he said firmly, taking her arm. "I conquer."

She shook her arm loose, shooting him a puzzled look. "Yeah, okay, caveman. You get to do the conquering. No argument here."

Face was aware that he was holding himself carefully, like he might break his ribs if he moved too fast or breathed too heavily. He hated it when he got like this. Forcing his shoulders to drop and relax, he gave Amy an apologetic smile.

BA handed Amy a small tracking device. "All you gotta do is slip this into his pocket. Pants are better than jacket. Jackets get taken off." He tossed a second sliver of metal to Face.

Amy nodded and tucked the device into her bra before looking up and meeting the gazes of the men around her.

"I don't have pockets in this dress," she said. Hannibal twitched his mouth into a quick grin. Face fidgeted with his cufflinks, eager to get going and not at all interested in Amy's bra or lack of pockets.

"Amy," Hannibal said, " remember, all you have to do is get Ferdinand away from Andy McNiven and plant the tracker. Face, you know what to do of course."

He nodded. He knew. He always knew. Mostly he could figure out what Hannibal had running around his labyrinthine brain before the colonel could articulate his plans to the others. This time the plan was simple. Amy's involvement was the only weak point he could see but Hannibal couldn't be dissuaded. Face knew that even the easiest marks could turn savage at a mistimed or clumsily delivered line. He'd seen Amy pull off other jobs but every time she was involved he was holding his breath and hoping to hell she wouldn't get them killed. It wasn't that he didn't like her. She was okay by him in general. Running a con was often the same as facing an armed opponent and she was both a civilian and a woman. The firing line was no place for either.

As soon as they entered the ballroom, Amy took his arm and pulled him to one side. He shook her off and frowned at her.

"What?"

She looked up at him with a serious expression and crossed her arms.

"You've been off all day, Face. Is there anything I should know about before we do this?"

He brushed the lapels of his jacket and scanned the room for Ferdinand or McNiven.

"No, I'm fine. If you had doubts about this, you should have raised them with Hannibal."

She laid a hand on his arm and moved into his field of vision. He saw something in her face shift from unease to sympathy.

"I didn't want to make a big deal. I'm just worried about you today."

Blessedly, she backed off and moved a few paces away, tilting her head and looking at the faces of the men gathered beside the bar. The ceiling was high and the three chandeliers were tastefully modern. At the far end of the room, beside the bar, a cover band offered their versions of old favourite songs beside a shiny parquet dance floor. The sign on the easel by the door read "Welcome Alumni – Go Prairie Dogs!" Under other circumstances, Face might have been able to relax, enjoy himself and the challenge of blending in. The room was crowded with former students of Grasslands High School here to celebrate the school's seventieth anniversary. People were laughing and dancing, remembering each other and wishing they could be forgotten. Somewhere in the crowd, David Ferdinand and Andy McNiven were circulating and drinking with their old high school buddies. Somewhere in the desert, they had the client's brother held hostage. Face wore a nametag that declared him to be Steve Wozniak and Amy's labelled her as Abby Lemon. Wozniak was serving a nickel in Iowa for fraud but the client, a former Grasslands student himself, had helpfully pointed out that the resemblance between him and Face was close enough to pass if Face avoided anyone who had been good friends with him – if any such creature existed in the first place. Amy was simply going as Steve's girlfriend. Her cover story was her own property, if she decided to make one up. They weren't going to be there long enough to spend much time making friends with the locals.

Face stood with Andy McNiven and watched over his shoulder as Amy tactfully pulled Dave Ferdinand's hand off her backside as he attempted a clumsy cha cha.

"So you were in the class of '65?" McNiven was frowning, his moustache creased with the effort of thought. He was tall and broad and Face figured McNiven could probably bench press him ten times without stopping.

"That's right. With Rhonda Beale and Jeff Muller," he improvised, running a nervous finger around his collar and slanting a furtive look around the room. He glanced over at Amy again. She was leaning back, out of Ferdinand's range, as he tried to kiss her, a smile pasted on her face. His part was easy compared to hers, it seemed. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at some imaginary sweat on his brow before clearing his throat. Was he going to have to hold up some subtitles for this guy to get the hint? Finally he managed to let out a nervous giggle at something McNiven said and the other man looked at him with a wary expression.

"Say, Wozniak, you look a little shook up."

_Finally._ Face nodded and leaned in confidentially. "Well, to be honest, Andy, I wasn't too sure how to raise this with you."

McNiven raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Out with it, mister. You got something to tell me?"

Face nodded and cleared his throat, perfectly recalling the story he needed to deliver. "See, my car got broken into today. Terrible thing. They stole my stereo and Abby's purse. So we went to the sheriff's office. Remember I told your pal Dave there that I thought I knew him from somewhere? It was from there. He was real friendly with one of the sheriff's men. Thing is, and I really don't want to make trouble here, but – I heard your name mentioned more than once. Something about a bank?" Face did his best impression of a scared petty crook. "I've been in trouble with Mr Law one or two times myself, you know, petty stuff in the corn belt mostly, but I thought you should know."

He watched as McNiven's brows knit together and saw him cast a black look at Ferdinand as Amy pulled his hand off her breast. He pawed at her again and she twisted away in an effort to avoid his forceful grip. The smile was still on her face but it had a cast of desperation about it. Face frowned. That was a bit much. He'd intervene in a minute, once McNiven was on his way. The big man turned back toward Face.

"Why are you telling me?"

Face shrugged and reached out to clasp the other man's arm in a gesture of solidarity, slipping a tracking device into his jacket pocket. He wasn't going to try for the pants, no matter what BA said.

"Like I said, I've been there, man. Just finished a nickel because my buddy couldn't keep his trap shut. Rhonda Beale mentioned you fondly so I thought I should tell you. You know, liberty, fraternity, all that."

He was moving, walking, forcing McNiven to keep pace with him, moving farther away from Ferdinand to keep the other man off balance, looking backward, losing focus on Face and what he was saying. McNiven nodded distractedly. Face was pleased. Job done. These guys weren't smart but they were the blunt instruments that would lead them to the real bad guys.

"Well, alright, thanks," McNiven ground out. "I don't owe you nothin', Wozniak, but thanks."

"Go Prairie Dogs," Face replied, straight faced. He followed McNiven onto the dance floor and pulled an unresisting Amy into his arms as McNiven hauled his partner away toward the door, muttering darkly. Couples moved around them in a slow orbit to something romantic the band was playing. Hannibal and BA would pick the two men up at the door and tail them using the tracking devices. Face waited until they moved away into the crowd before he stopped smiling and loosened his grip on Amy, looking down at her.

"You okay?"

After a moment, she nodded. "He didn't try for more than a grope." She ran uncomfortable hands over herself. "But that was enough." She moved one hand to her hair and looked up at Face. "Next time BA gets to be the bait."

Face chuckled despite his black mood. "Did you get the tracker planted?"

He wasn't surprised when she nodded. "Of course. To be honest, he hardly noticed."

When she reached for him and pulled his arms around her, pulled him into a slow, careful dance, he was startled.

"What are you doing?"

She lifted her head and looked him in the face. "So what happened with Holly?"

The question took him by surprise. He shook his head. He wasn't going to go into it. The con worked and they needed to rendezvous with Murdock. He went to pull away and she tightened her grip, shaking her head.

"No, you don't. Talk, my friend. Who am I going to tell your secrets to?"

"Your readers?"

She laughed. "Face, the only people interested in reading about your romantic exploits already know about them first hand."

He frowned at her then relented. It was Amy. She irritated the hell out of him more often than not and there were plenty of times that he had suggested cutting her loose from the team but he knew where he stood with her. Also, he knew first hand that once she got something into her head she didn't let it go until she got an answer. "I ended it."

She gave his hand a squeeze and he saw sympathy in her every line. "I'm sorry Face. I know you liked her a lot." She gave him a small smile. "It won't last forever."

"What?" He found he rather liked the way her dress felt under his hand. "What won't last forever?"

"Your enforced bachelorhood. One day you'll meet a nice girl who can hang around forever and put up with your mess."

Her assertion was oddly comforting, not that he would ever mention it.

"It's not enforced," he replied, feeling a sudden urge to defend himself. "I'm just not a forever kind of guy. I meet plenty of nice girls."

Amy slanted him a doubtful look. "Okay."

"Holly was a nice girl."

"Yes, she was."

"Denise Hall."

Amy raised her eyebrows. "Really?"

Face nodded. "Very nice. To look at. And in other ways."

"Uh huh." She sounded disapproving. He looked down at her.

"I'm a _fugitive._"

She shook her head. "Details. What's your point?"

"You started this," he said, surprised that he was bothering to talk to her at all. This was something new. Usually he talked to Murdock or Hannibal when he was in this kind of space.

"I see the state you're in Face," she said simply. "So do the others."

"And? Look," he said, suddenly intensely uncomfortable, "we need to meet Murdock. My personal life is absolutely none of your business."

"I agree. The sordid details hardly keep me up at night, but your personal life is infringing on mine and that is my business."

He raised one eyebrow, feeling besieged. "Yours?"

She nodded.

"You radiate doubt, Face, and that makes you dangerous today."

He pushed her away and stood looking at her warily, angry. Other couples paused to watch them.

"We need to meet Murdock. We're leaving."

She eyed him with a slightly hurt expression. "You seemed upset about Holly. I thought you could use some time to talk."

"I don't talk," he replied bitingly. Her demeanour didn't change.

"Maybe that's your problem," she said, taking a step toward him and hesitating for a moment before she reached out and took his hand. "I don't want to upset you Face. I'm sorry." She looked away for a moment then back at him. "Come on, let's go meet Murdock." She released his hand and turned away. Struck by a baffling sensation he couldn't easily name, he reached for her and pulled her back toward him.

"Amy, wait," he began and sighed. She stepped back into his arms and looked at him warily. He opened his mouth but he honestly couldn't think of any more words to say. She nodded and moved in to carefully wrap her arms around his neck. He tensed. Sharing and crying and holding hands was not something he – or any of them except perhaps occasionally Murdock – ever did. When the black mood hit they would pull on the boxing gloves or shoot some cans, maybe run a mile or two, and wait for it to pass as it always did. This was wasting time. Murdock was waiting. Instead he began to move, to steer her carefully around the dance floor to the old tune that the band were playing, finding the sensation of her arms around him and the slow dance music brought him focus. As they moved he exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, felt himself release his tension a little and breathe more easily. Face liked human contact. He always had. He held his personal space like defended ground, usually, but the physicality of someone close to him, touching him, spoke to something childlike within him and calmed him more than an outsider might think it could.

"Relax, Face," Amy said quietly. "You need to relax and we'll all breathe easier. Why don't you go get a massage or something when this over?"

He looked at her. "A massage?"

She shrugged bonelessly and grinned. "I'm more used to comforting girlfriends after a break up. A massage, a new pair of shoes, a trip to a cocktail bar on ladies night. I'm not sure what an uptight fugitive special forces guy does in this situation."

He fought a smile. "Well we don't get a massage." Obscurely, he acknowledged that on some level he was drawing comfort from someone being willing to comfort him. The team were his brothers and he would die for each of them in a heartbeat, but they were not often able to offer this kind of comfort, the kind that included arms and hands and the sensation of skin. It was primal. He took what he needed, as he always had, from strangers, women he met. The life he lived, he needed comforting from time to time. He'd never really had a woman offer it as a friend, without sex or seduction or any effort on his part. Amy looked up at him seriously.

"New shoes?"

"A trip to a cocktail bar on ladies night," he replied. "More my scene."

"That's what got you into this mess," she said. "Why not try a pottery class or something next time?"

He didn't bother fighting his smile. Something lifted just a tiny bit inside him. She studied him and, after a moment, nodded in satisfaction.

They didn't talk again for a minute. Their slow path took them closer to the stage and the band. With a start, Face recognised the tune they were playing. A cook in the mess at Da Nang had been a big Johnny Mathis fan and had sung that song nearly every morning as he reconstituted the eggs and burned the coffee. What was it called?

As if she was a mind reader, Amy sighed. "I love this song. I wish I could remember what it's called. Something about forever." She looked at him with a smile. "How appropriate."

He recalled the words suddenly.

_When I fall in love it will be forever  
Or I'll never fall in love…  
_It was like the Universe really did hate him, sometimes.

The song ended and Amy stepped out of his arms, smiling. "Come on, we have to meet Murdock."

oOooOooOo

They walked together to the door. Murdock was waiting for them, relaxed and unconcerned by the delay, cross legged on a seat in the tiled lobby. He unfolded himself as they approached and Face caught the little questioning look he shot Amy. She gave Murdock a small nod and a wink and Face caught on quickly. The whole thing had been a set up for his sake. Amy preceded them out the doors and into the street. Face caught Murdock's arm.

"What was that about?"

Murdock paused and Face set himself up for a denial but instead the pilot looked thoughtful.

"You were in that mood again. We saw it. I'd snuggle you myself except I figured you'd probably punch me."

"And I wouldn't punch Amy?"

Murdock shrugged and gave him a loopy smile. Face shook his head, feeling a little more of the black mood lift away.

"I hoped you wouldn't hit a girl," his friend replied, and threw an arm around his shoulders and planted a wet kiss on his cheek anyway. They pushed through the revolving door and met Amy on the street.

"Let's go catch some bad guys, friends," Face said, meaning every word.


	2. Last Mile Home

**Last Mile Home**

_In the jungle of Viet Nam, a pilot approaches the new guy with an odd request._

Murdock could usually tell where he was by the taste of the dust in his teeth. People might laugh at him, and they'd probably be right to do it, but it was something he'd noticed, something valid, almost scientific. Once the war was over, and scientists could invent things that didn't strip flesh and melt lungs and pump a hundred hot bullets a minute into some guy who just had his breakfast, maybe someone would do a study on it. That would be useful. You wouldn't need maps any more. You could steer by the stars and the taste of the dirt. He'd heard that someone in Italy (Austria? Holland? Who knew?) was studying whether ducks quacked the same way in different countries so he was hopeful that it might happen. All he knew about it was that when he flew he could tell he was in Viet Nam because the grit in his teeth at the end of the mission tasted different – riper, more fecund, greener. His Grammaw used to say that a boy had to eat a bucket of dirt before he died. He figured he'd probably be at the bottom of his second bucket by the end of next year. He didn't mind. The blades of the chopper, the wind, the unceasing forward motion of flight, all these things brought him dust, brought him closer to an understanding of the place where he found himself and who he was while he was there.

In summer time, the dust around Sawtooth had been a pale yellow brown and got into every pore, crease, seam and wrinkle until you couldn't distinguish between dust and skin, dust and air, dust and not-dust. In winter the dust settled and the creek rose and he'd worn mud like shoes til spring. It had tasted of minerals and sand and something indefinably consoling. As far as he was concerned, the dust around Sawtooth was as delicious as Grammaw's apricot pies had been.

The new guy was sprawled across a thin patch of grass behind the mess when Murdock found him, skinny chest thrusting into the sunshine, eyes closed, hands clasped loosely behind his head. He was young, brash, stupid and clever. On the last mission he'd flown, the guy had somehow managed to pull the team's collective ass out of the frying pan by scaring up a nun's costume and a gaggle of geese in the middle of the jungle. He'd worn the wimple himself without a trace of embarrassment. Murdock was pretty sure he liked the guy. He looked down at him for a minute before nudging him with the toe of his boot.

"You're in my sunshine," the guy said without twitching an inch.

"You're Peck, aren't you? That's your name?" Murdock asked. The guy cracked one eye and looked up at him.

"And you're the pilot. How can I help you?"

Murdock bent suddenly, bonelessly, to squat in the dirt beside Peck. "People say you can get things. I need to ask you a question."

Peck sat up, eye level now, and assumed an intrigued expression. "People say you're crazy. What could you possibly want to know?"

Murdock hesitated before answering. Grammaw had always drilled manners into her boy and all the social niceties. If he didn't observe them now it was because he had decided to leave most of them behind in Sawtooth when he left for college and sometimes forgot how to use them. He knew his reputation. He didn't want to say the wrong thing.

"I need to know how to get a Doris Day record."

Peck's face slid into a puzzled grin. "A what?"

Murdock gave him a nervous smile. "A Doris Day record. I can't remember what it's called but… I need one that has a particular song on it."

Peck blinked at him. "Is that all? I can get that for you easy. But it'll cost you."

_Cost?_ Well, of course, he should have expected it. There was a strong economy in camp based on cigarettes, weed, nudie mags and favours. Murdock didn't smoke anything and wasn't ready to part with his one issue of _Jugs_.

"What's it worth?" he asked. The young man assumed a shrewd narrowing of the eyes that Murdock might have better expected to see on the business end of an eyepiece held by a diamond appraiser.

"I need you to tell me – in great detail – why the fuck you are suddenly craving Doris Day in the middle of the goddamned jungle." He smiled and his blue eyes crinkled up. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I've been asked for some weird stuff and I never ever stand in judgement of my client base, but this smells like it's got a good story attached."

Murdock sat himself down and pulled his knees up to his chest. "Now?"

Peck looked at him thoughtfully. "Yeah sure. Why not. I've got an appointment in an hour with a fellow wants investment advice."

"Oh, you know about that sort of stuff?"

Again, the younger man smiled his devastating smile. "I can know about anything for the right price." He pulled a tattered paperback out of his back pocket and handed it over.

_Money Matters for Family Men._

"Guy's got a wife and two kids in Jersey, wants to tell his wife how to invest his life savings so he can buy a boat when he gets back."

Murdock handed back the book with a flash of misgiving. Peck was a gifted producer of unusual items but he was also a wheeler dealer who, apparently, was not as much of a genius in all areas of note as his reputation suggested. The book looked like it had been much thumbed and Murdock was all for self education – when he was a boy he memorised all of Kipling's "Just So" stories, particularly enjoying the one about the rhinoceros: the Cake-Parsee just tickled him - he just didn't think anyone should be taking investment advice from someone whose main business assets seemed to be a killer smile and a can do attitude. Still – all he was asking for was a record and all he was being asked for was a story he had been telling himself all day anyway. Peck was looking at him expectantly. "Well?" he asked. "Doris awaits."

Murdock shrugged. "See, okay, I grew up in this town called Sawtooth. I mean, I got the hell out as soon as I was old enough, went to college, joined the airforce, all the usuals. I lived with my Grammaw and her husband Hank Gifford. Hank wasn't my Pawpaw, he'd died when I was a baby, but Hank was as close as close could be to the real thing so I didn't notice."

Peck gave him a measuring look. "Parents?"

Murdock cleared his throat and swallowed down some dust. "Away, I guess. They ain't dead. Mom just thought I'd be better raised by Grammaw and Hank." He ran a hand across his stubble, made suddenly uneasy by the sharp look he got from the other man. Something told him mothers were an issue for this guy. He let it go. No sense peering into another man's combat boots. Everyone had a past.

"My Grammaw made cakes like you wouldn't believe," he went on. "Pirate ships, football helmets, you name it she'd make you a cake shaped like it. She made me a different birthday cake every year til I left town. Sure she made bread and biscuits and all that stuff as well. There was a bakery in town but Grammaw used to say their bread wasn't worth a tinker's spit. Weevils. Probably wasn't true but she used to say it."

He had a sudden flash of memory of the cake he'd gotten for seventeenth birthday. It was a Stetson with a licorice band and a little lone star flag in place of a candle.

"Don't you forget where you grew up, college boy," his Grammaw had rasped and cut him a piece the size of his fist. He'd left for college the next week and the little flag had stayed with him until he'd lost it in flight school.

"Hey, come back now" he heard Peck say. "You were gazing into the middle distance."

Murdock shrugged to cover his gaffe. He was always doing that, following a train of thought in the middle of another conversation. "I was taking a dramatic pause."

"Uh huh. Get on with the story."

"So… right. Cakes. Year I turned ten Grammaw had planned a big celebration for me, invited the neighbours and Hank's kids and all and had baked me a cake shaped like an aeroplane. Only, it was a surprise party. She'd told me to be home by five but I met up with Tommy Esposaro and Bill Tighten and we headed down to the crick and fished and played around until after eight. It was summer, see, and the sun stayed out til all hours and so did we. So I had catfish when I headed home but no party. The guests had all gone home, the cake had all been eaten, and Grammaw was sitting on the front porch smoking and listening to Doris Day, waiting for me."

"Trouble?"

"Keep listening. We'll get there."

"Sorry." Peck pulled on his shirt and moved into a more comfortable position.

Murdock went on. "I knew something had happened. She was dark like a thunderhead and I just stood there, dripping catfish hanging from my belt, dusty as a dog in the road. I could see the streamers up and the empty glasses and I knew I'd messed up. You know that moment when you know you've stood in a patty and now you're gonna stink all day?"

His audience grimaced. "Not really."

"Yeah you do. Think about it. Anyway, I was all stinky alright. I was ready for Grammaw to whale on me for being late and missing my own birthday party. She'd been up all last night making the cake. I'd asked for it special, seeing as I was into flying even then. But she just took the fish and went into the kitchen with Hank. I could hear them talking about me. Man, I started tearing up like I was gonna cry, I was so upset that I'd missed the party and my cake and all and now Grammaw was probably gonna rip six kinds of brimstone through me as well. I hunched myself down real small on the porch next to the record player and just waited like I was waiting for execution."

"Hmmm… Somehow I feel this story is getting off track." Peck cocked his head. "If I wanted a story about spanking I could read _Jugs_."

Murdock looked at him with widening eyes. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? Where the hell did you grow up, man?"

Peck looked away for a moment before answering. "In an orphanage run by nuns. We didn't listen to Doris Day and play by the crick."

Murdock was rendered speechless for a moment. Actually, that probably explained a lot. He decided to press on.

"So I sat there, felt like forever. Then I heard the screen door bang and out came Hank with a plate of fried catfish and Grammaw with an apricot pie left over from the party. We sat and ate fish and pie and the sun went down behind the barn before we were finished. Grammaw played more Doris Day and told me about the party, who'd been there and what they'd said. And then…"

He paused and felt himself begin to drift again. How could he explain the moment that followed, the moment he'd been chasing ever since, the moment that lived so strongly in his brain at that moment – to a cynic who'd grown up in a city orphanage? He pondered the situation. Peck raised an impatient eyebrow. Murdock decided on a course of action.

"Close your eyes. Imagine this with me. It's sundown in a dusty Texas town. You're ten years old eating the best pie you've ever had on the front porch of a farmhouse. On the roof there's fireflies – five or six, just winking away - and the windows are making big yellow squares of light. Doris Day is singing her heart out from a record player on the step. Your Grammaw and Grandpa are dancing, holding each other so carefully and moving real slow in a circle like… like leaves eddying on a pond. You know what I mean? Leaves on a pond? They're real old and they ain't been together their whole lives like some old people, but they found each other and they found happiness and family and they kept it. And they gave it to you. It's like… it's a sense of being _safe_. You know where you are and why you're there and who you are and who you might be when you're old. Doris Day and apricot pie and the dust between your toes, you know?"

Peck had closed his eyes obediently and kept them closed for a moment after Murdock finished talking. He sighed a small sigh before opening them and for a moment the pilot was certain he saw a sad shadow in the young man's eye before the cocky shield slapped back in place.

"Right. I get it. But why now? Why a sudden need for the song stylings of Miss Day _today?_"

Feeling his throat closing over and his chest get heavy, Murdock fished into his fatigues and pulled out a crumpled, dusty telegram. He paused, feeling the crisp paper between his fingers before handing it over. Peck accepted it with a slow reach and read it with wide eyes.

"Shit, man. Your grandmother _died_?"

Murdock nodded. She'd been sick for a year. Hank had sent him the telegram through the camp's CO. Peck handed it back, gently folding it and smoothing it with a thoughtful expression. He looked up at Murdock and smiled. "Give me a few days."

It took exactly two days for Peck to show up beside his bunk with a hessian sack under his arm.

"Hello Captain. You got yourself a record player?"

Murdock had been dozing on his bunk, one arm tucked behind his head, feet bare and fly undone. The heat was cloying and the sun was burning a steady hole through his soul like he had a magnifying glass attached to his head. The telegram from Hank was still neatly folded in his pocket. He'd been grounded for three days – all the Thunderbirds were down for maintenance – and he'd been going quietly mad on his own. Peck was a welcome sight and the sack under his arm gave Murdock a sudden thrill of anticipation.

"Yeah, borrowed one from a buddy." He sat up and zipped his fly. "What you got there?"

Peck flopped onto the bunk opposite and reached into the sack like a slim Santa in fatigues and boots. He gave Murdock a wide grin and pulled out a record with a smiling Doris Day on the sleeve. Murdock gave a triumphant shout as he took it and flipped it over. There it was. The song.

"You are officially amazing, mister!" He stood and went to the rickety shelf beside the door where a portable record player was stacked haphazardly against a pair of boots and a few books. He set it straight, opened it and set it up to play. Behind him, Peck cleared his throat. Murdock turned. The young man was looking at him expectantly.

"So I snuck a look at your record in the infirmary," he said guilelessly. Murdock frowned.

"So?"

"So that's some interesting medication that you're on. Anti-depressants?"

Murdock shrugged and turned back to the record player, delicately setting the needle on the revolving vinyl. The sound scratched a little.

"Everyone has a past, man."

He turned back to Peck as Doris began to sing. He took a moment to breathe and absorb the sound through every pore in his skin. He hung his head and felt his muscles begin to relax and imagined the taste of Sawtooth on his palate. Apricot pie, creek water, yellow brown dust.

"I was looking for your birthday," Peck said, hauling him out of his reverie. Murdock shrugged. Peck gave him a lopsided grin and hauled a tin of apricots out of the sack.

"Happy Birthday, HM Murdock, for tomorrow. I liberated these from the officers mess. I didn't have time to bake you a rocket ship cake or a pie, so I hope you have a spoon."

Murdock reached out and caught the silver tin as Peck tossed it to him. He turned it over and looked at it.

"I have two spoons. Want to share?"

The young man nodded. "We can talk some more about your Grammaw… if you want to, I mean."

Long into the late afternoon, when shadows stretched like molasses over the camp and its jungle shroud and everything it contained settled heavily beneath the moist heat of the evening, two men lay on their two bunks and listened to the same song over and over, snagging apricots out of a purloined tin, talking about family and women and the taste of dust, as Doris Day sang about going home.

_You travel far over land and sea_

_Then one day it's as clear as it can be_

_The sweetest mile you'll ever roam_

_Is the last mile home_


	3. I Only Have Eyes For You

**I Only Have Eyes For You**

_On the makeshift dance floor of the Da Nang Open Officers' Mess, Decker and Hannibal sort a few things out._

There were four things in life that made Hannibal Smith very happy indeed: a fresh cigar, the almost audible snap when a plan came together, Irish coffee with a strong accent and the sensation of his fist knocking the smile off a smug bastard's face. In this case, he thought as he slid a fresh Cuban out of his pocket with a hand that ached a little after he'd smashed it into Rod Decker's jaw, two out of four would have to do. Decker was sprawled across the sanded planks of the makeshift dance floor, a stunned expression on his face, one wiry hand moving across his face where Hannibal's fist had made a point a few seconds ago.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Smith?" he ground out, hauling himself to his feet. He pulled himself to his full height and brushed his hands down his fatigues, a bullish expression on his face. Hannibal grinned and nipped the end off his cigar.

"Winning the argument," he quipped. "Cigar?"

To his surprise and disappointment, Decker ground his teeth and stood his ground. Hannibal had tensed and risen to the balls of his feet, preparing to feint and dodge an attack. It didn't come. Instead Decker eyed him warily. Hannibal could see the muscles in his jaw clenching into knots as he schooled himself to stand still and not react. That wouldn't do at all. In no way, shape or form would he allow Decker to walk away from this with the upper hand, high moral ground or any sort of satisfaction at all. They were more or less alone in the mess, long room strangely quiet without its usual complement of officers eating, drinking and telling taller stories than their neighbours. Hannibal had rousted a couple of sleepless second lieutenants when he came in and a drowsy first lieutenant had not stayed for long. A long bar stretched along one wall and Hannibal turned toward the catering officer casually polishing a glass and pretending not to notice two seasoned and senior officers about to square off and kill each other.

"Beat it kid," he snapped. The catering officer gave him a long, level look, then nodded slightly and tucked his towel into his belt, replacing the glass carefully under the bar. Anticipating what might come, or perhaps recalling what had happened before, he took all the glassware off the top of the bar with quick, practiced motions. With one last look at the two men, he exited into the kitchens. Hannibal watched him go, watched the servery doors slap together in his wake, then turned back to Decker. He hadn't moved, his fists clenched on his hips, his boots firmly planted on the boards where, five hours previously, a four piece band, three pretty girls in shiny bikinis and a stand up comic with exactly six jokes and a card trick had brought a tiny piece of the USO to Da Nang. To the right of the floor, against the wall in the corner, stood the object in question, the straw that broke the back of the tenuous camaraderie between the two officers. With no small amount of effort, clever pretension and a tiny bit of forgery, Peck had managed to divert a jukebox from its intended home in the Saigon Officers Club to the officers mess at Da Nang camp. Da Nang had had its own jukebox until a rocket attack had shaken the mess to its foundations and sent a stack of chairs crashing through the coloured glass front and into several favoured records. While other officers might tend to sit back, preferring Buddy Holly, the Beach Boys or some Motown classics to raising objections at the methodology the young lieutenant employed, the healing power of music was lost on Roderick Decker. Hannibal narrowed his eyes. Decker had threatened to complain, to push for disciplinary action not only against Peck but against Hannibal himself and several other members of his unit, all of whom may or may not have had a hand in diverting the thing from the truck it was on to a waiting transport and installing it in the mess. With his bulldog attitude, his slapdash tactics, his near fanatical devotion to regulation, Decker had been a thorn in Hannibal's side in one way or another for a long time. Perhaps since West Point. There was no doubting that the man was a solid soldier – solid and reliable with the imagination of a sandbag and the flamboyant flair usually associated with carbon copies of orders for extra rations of toilet paper despite his reputation for brutally unusual strategies. He took small victories when the right people were watching and not a lot of prisoners. Occasionally, despite his disabling lack of _joie de vivre_, his plans came together in a way that impressed even Hannibal. In the right setting, a man like Decker could win a war. Hannibal looked at him through narrowed eyes. In this little war, just declared right here in this room, Decker was in the wrong setting. This day was not going to be won by a bulldog attitude, a flew exploding Cong hospitals and the RoE.

"Now," Hannibal said lightly, flipping out a matchbook and lighting his cigar. "Shall we discuss this?"

Decker shook his head. "This is insane. You know exactly how Peck obtained this piece of contraband. You probably devised the plan, knowing how you operate. I don't know how you have the balls to get up and put on that uniform every day." He rubbed his hand across his jaw again and spat out a little blood, stabbing his other finger at Hannibal like a knife point. "You are dangerous. You flout the regulations every chance you get. You are no officer."

"We've had this discussion before, Decker," Hannibal said, leaning against a table and puffing out a smoke ring, marveling that a man who had killed twenty two civilians the week before by rigging an enemy tank with explosives and aiming it at a suspected Viet Cong medical centre (which turned out to be a rather innocent pharmacy) should be quoting rules and regulations about _anything_ to him. Decker was noted for his chosen target – field hospitals – and his motto: _If they're down, make sure they STAY down._ Hannibal didn't disagree with the sentiment, just the tactics. He just didn't _like_ the man. "I think it's time we decided who wins."

Decker raised his eyebrows and took two stalking steps toward Hannibal. "Like this? You are beyond the pale. You think that… _brawling_… in the middle of the mess is the way to repair a problem?" He barked out a humourless laugh. "Of course you do." He shook his head and grinned a deaths head grin. "You will regret this, Smith. I'd say you'll be in the doghouse after I'm through with you but that insults the good men in the Growl Pad. Disciplinary hearing won't even begin to cover it."

Hannibal felt something akin to glee at the other man's words. Decker was offering petty insults. Cracking the man's calm was almost a done deal. His rigid control and self discipline had been begging to be broken for a long, long time. Hannibal took a thoughtful pull on his cigar, considering the situation.

"Well, alright then, is that's the way you feel." He grinned around his cigar. "I guess we can go see Major General Hunter in the morning. You can lodge a complaint against me if it will help you sleep better." He pushed himself to his feet. "In fact, let's go now."

Decker took another step toward him and eyed him warily. "Now?"

"Yeah. Why not? Hunter won't kind being rousted out of bed at this hour to deal with the paperwork generated by a neurotic cry-baby." Hannibal gestured toward the door. "Off you go then, I'm right behind you. Don't let the door scratch your shiny Mary Janes on the way out."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Decker bunch a fist against his thigh. _One more… tiny… push…_ Hannibal surveyed the room and smiled. This was going to be far too perfect for words. All he had to do now was get the timing right and trust the others to come through with their end. He casually brushed past the other man and sauntered over to the jukebox, taking his time with his selection. Decker seethed on the edge of the dance floor as Hannibal punched two buttons and watched the mechanical arm slowly descend onto the record he'd chosen.

_My love must be a kind of blind love_

_I can't see anyone but you_

He turned around to look at Decker with wide eyes and a wider grin. "Gosh, I love this song, don't you just love this song?" He raised a limp hand and let it drift with the doo-wops. Actually, he did like this song. He had good memories of a girl named Peggy and an Indiana motel room that involved this song. Now he planned to make another good memory backed by JC Carey's smooth crooning. He turned in a slow circle, slowing in front of Decker and pursing his lips and jabbing him in the chest.

"Admit it, Rodererick, you love this song."

He executed a small dance he'd learned from his chopper pilot the day before, sidestepping and twirling and ending with a minstrel's bow. Decker's hand closed over the front of his shirt and the man's entire body rammed him backwards against the front of the jukebox. _Gotcha._

As his other hand slammed upward into Hannibal's stomach, knocking the wind out of him, Hannibal couldn't help but be pleased through his pain. Now he needed Peck… He raised his arm to block the next blow and shoved Decker backward, away from him, and braced himself against the jukebox as his opponent swung again, grunting as his fist connected with Hannibal's jaw. Through the stars, Hannibal reminded himself – all he needed was Peck. He ducked the next blow but let the next one land. Where the hell was that kid? He felt Decker's hand twist into his shirt front again and looked the man in the eye. His lips were drawn back in a grim rictus of hatred and his eyes were blanked by a look that Hannibal had seen on men who'd been ordered to kill prisoners. For the slimmest moment he wondered if he'd underestimated Rod Decker. The man was wound tighter than the girdle on a minister's wife at an all you can eat pancake buffet. You let something like that go there was always chance it would snap in a direction you couldn't predict. Currently it was snapping at Hannibal's face. He felt Decker's fist smash into his left eye and retaliated with an uppercut to the other man's solar plexus, driving him back for a moment. Gasping, Hannibal risked a glance at the door. He saw it crack open. Sergeant Baracus stuck his scowl into the room, raised his eyebrows at Hannibal and nodded once. Hannibal let Decker back him up against the jukebox and land another punishing blow.

"As I was saying sir," came Peck's voice like some sort of dream hallucination, "this is the juke box in question. I just felt so – "

"What the hell?"

Hannibal barely heard the words through the blood rushing through him but he felt Decker arrest his motion and freeze mid-blow. Through his one open eye, Hannibal looked over Decker's shoulder and saw Baracus with one hand clamped around the man's upraised fist and a stern expression cast across his customarily inscrutable features. Beyond him, Major General Hunter and Colonel Morrison stood stiffly wearing twin expression of shock and disgust, Morrison's tinged with something like humour. Beside them stood Peck, his face showing every sign of surprise.

"Lieutenant Colonel Decker, what are you doing?"

Hunter's voice was chillingly calm as he asked his question. Hannibal saw Decker's face deflate and heard that little snap as it all came together. Decker didn't move. Baracus released his arm and he rested his hand on Hannibal's chest, his expression sharpening and driving into Hannibal like a blade. Hannibal found enough uninjured muscle in his cheeks to offer a small smile, aware that his senior officers couldn't see his face. Then he groaned and let himself go slack in Decker's grip.

"Having a discussion with Lieutenant Colonel Smith about this jukebox, sir," he ground out, not taking his eyes off Hannibal's face despite the officers standing behind him. "It seems Lieutenant Peck there _stole_ it with the aid of Smith and his unit."

"Your conduct in this matter is a trifle unbecoming," Hunter said sharply. "If you had concerns, lodging a complaint would have been sufficient. Report to my office. Now."

True to his training, Decker released Hannibal and snapped upright. "Sir, with respect, this jukebox is – "

"The property of the US Army, Decker." Morrison stepped forward. "It seems that Lieutenant Peck acted on his COs orders tonight and confessed his involvement in the matter to Major General Hunter and myself."

Decker shot a glance at Morrison. "Sir?"

Morrison nodded. "Lieutenant Peck has confessed to taking advantage of a supply corp error in the shipping advice attached to this piece of equipment to install it in here in Da Nang rather than ensure it was sent to Saigon. I have looked at the paperwork myself and the error is evident."

Hannibal saw Decker's face fall for an instant before rearranging itself into it's customary set lines. "Sir, I must protest. I don't think you've been told the truth."

"The truth is it's midnight and I would very much like to get some sleep," Hunter snapped. "Lieutenant Peck has been spoken to regarding his lapse in judgement. Since I am told that the Officer's Mess in Saigon has replaced its missing jukebox, this one will remain on base right where it is. Your own lapse in judgement, Lieutenant Colonel Decker, remains to be dealt with."

"And Smith?" Decker asked roughly. In response, Hannibal groaned and bent from the knees to slide to the floor, letting his head fall to one side, jaw slack, feigning unconsciousness. He felt hands on his head, Peck's hands.

"He's passed out," he heard the young man say. "He's taken a hell of a beating on my behalf, sir."

"Get the man to the infirmary," Morrison snapped. Hannibal felt another set of large hands join Peck's and gently straighten his limbs.

"It's aright, sir," he heard Baracus rumble. "We'll take care of you."

He heard Decker utter something like a snort. Behind him, the jukebox snapped and shifted and began to play the same song again. Hannibal hoped the fight hadn't broken it. He liked that song but didn't think he could spend the rest of the war listening to it.

"Huh." Hannibal heard Hunter take a step toward the jukebox. "My wife loves this song."

"Yes sir," Peck said with ten inches more sincerity than Hannibal had ever heard him use before, "it's a romantic classic. I hope your wife appreciated the pearls, sir. "

"Pearls?" Morrison asked. Hannibal fought a smile, remembering to stay still.

"Wedding anniversary last week, Morrison. Some of the men clubbed together to find a strand of south sea pearls." Hunter sounded pleased. "Margery loved them."

"_Some_ of the men, sir?" Decker's voice sounded strangled.

"Enough. Lieutenant, Sergeant, arrange for your CO to spend the night in the infirmary. Lieutenant Colonel, with me. " Hannibal heard Hunter's heels on the floor as he walked away, followed, after a pause during which he could feel the other man's eyes on him, by Morrison. He felt sudden movement beside him and felt Decker's hand on his shoulder, pressing him into the floor.

"One slip, Smith, just one," he hissed, "and I will _have_ you. This isn't over."

Hannibal chose to remain unconscious but allowed himself a small smirk as Decker rose and followed Hunter and Morrison. When they were gone he felt Peck sit back and swat at him.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty."

He groaned and didn't move, rather enjoying the sensation of lying down and letting the world spin around him. He felt a larger hand poke at him.

"Get the hell up, Hannibal."

Long ago in a foxhole somewhere their relationship had become blurred and Hannibal had forgotten what it was like to have either man call him 'sir' with any sincerity. It warmed his cockles.

"I take it he got the record?" Hannibal asked, pressing a hand to his ribs as he rolled over and sat up, leaning against the jukebox. Peck nodded. Baracus stood and disappeared into the kitchen.

" 'I Only Have Eyes For You' by The Flamingos. Post marked Cleveland with a card that said 'Remembering our first dance, love Margery'." He reached behind him and produced Hannibal's cigar, handing it over. "That was a nice act, by the way. Very convincing. You should tread the boards when the war is over." He sighed. "I sure hope you are happy with how everything worked out. You look like hell, sir."

Hannibal nodded, aware of the pain and stiffness creeping through him. He heard the servery doors slap again and Baracus knelt beside him and shoved something hot into his hands. Coffee. He held it to his face and inhaled.

"Seems like a lot of trouble for a damn jukebox," Baracus opined, sticking his hand in behind the thing and turning it off. Hannibal sipped his coffee.

"It was never about the jukebox, Sergeant." He sipped his coffee. If he was not mistaken, it definitely had a strong Irish accent. He was four for four. "It was all infinitely better than that." He swallowed down some more coffee and thought of Decker being hauled across Hunter's carpet. He loved it when a plan came together.


End file.
